Espionnage
by Shipsy
Summary: SPY/SNIPER SLASH. An unplanned story involving the dapper mystery we all know as Spy, our beloved swearing Aussie and other equally cryptic characters.


"_At the end of the day, long as there's two people left on the planet, someone is going to want someone dead."_

Sniper had lost track of the time that had passed through the iron bars of his cell and the battlefield above. Had it been days? Weeks? Months? Regardless, every second passed slowly with a heavy sigh; every exhale becoming more tiresome and exasperated.

The next thing he knew, there was a clatter of a metal bowl on the ground, a grunt, and then footsteps walking away swiftly in disgust. How pathetic the infamous sniper must have looked as he clutched the bowl in two bear-like paws. How pathetic the infamous sniper must have seemed with his hat and orange glasses askew. How pathetic the infamous sniper must have felt when he was captured and dragged by thin fingers gripping his bloody waistcoat into the BLU's base.

Feelings of shame immediately aside, he ate greedily and at a quickened pace. Sniper never really considered simple mannerisms when in his own company, or his appearance. He had no one to impress, and expected no one to join him, otherwise. That was, until, a menacing figure appeared out of thin air from the corridor. Its shadow loomed over the door of his prison, flooding through the keyhole with mirth as the shape of a lanky man formed on the cobblestones below.

"Good evening, notre tireur," It announced eerily.

Sniper hurriedly adjusted his posture and straightened his red jacket in feeble attempt to gather himself- but that was not his only concern. No sooner had this silky French string of words entered his ears, the familiar sound of a sharp knife being unsheathed followed.

"You… You must be th' jumped-up frog who got me locked up 'ere in the first place,"  
"Mais oui, detective. Guilty, as charged," Spy chuckled, twirling his blade in one hand as he stepped from the gloom. Light had granted Sniper the pleasure of sight, and one to behold, indeed. The skinny Frenchman wore a thin, white shirt, possessing no bloodstains and unbuttoned ever so slightly at its collar. Two Italian shoes clung to both feet comfortably where they welcomed the rims of black trousers. The remnants of a blue patriotic tie slinked and rested, alike a cat, around his shoulders, then finally completing the entire statement he wore a look that could easily kill anyone willing to meet his gaze (which were very few).

In all honesty, he did look rather dashing. But then again, when did Spy not?

"I suppose you've come t' taunt me," The aim said bravely, averting his eyes towards the ceiling. Something shook Sniper about the aura of the spy. It was not the type of danger he was so used to by now…War was just a glimpse on the horizon in comparison to the man before him, who held a burnt cigarette in one hand and a threat in the other…  
"Is that so?" He grinned.

"What do you want, Frenchie?"  
"There is no need to be upset, mon frère. I was simply… How you say… Visting," Spy smirked, flicking the butterfly knife using sleight of hand. "Oh, but of course! It is decided that we no longer require your services." Pacing, Spy quickly grabbed Sniper's vest (before he could slink from him), pulled the mass of Australian build closer, whispered a gentle (if somewhat apologetic) 'aurevoir' and cut his victim's life short.

The following day, Sniper respawned in his nest, livid with his untimely death.

"That bloody spy… I'm telling you, Engie. He's not an assassin, he's a fuckin' dill. I'd be surprised if he gets anythin' for what 'e does!"  
"Have you considered maybe he does, but for something more than money?"  
"Like I said, serial killer in th' makin'. I betcha all he wants is us REDs dead."  
"Well, he's sure taken a shine to that knife of his," The engineer muttered, rubbing his scarred hand nostalgically. Engineer was always the first person to endure his teammates' troubles and the last to be one of them. Every action was well scheduled, perfected and played until like clockwork- this also included his speech or advice. His words were law, and his presence was treated with the utmost respect.

Sniper slammed the china mug he clutched down onto the table, stroking his neck with calloused digits and deep thought. If Spy wanted to strangle with a snake, then he had better be prepared for the venom that ensued.  
"If it makes you feel any better, bushman, we missed you and your accuracy on the field like heck." But the bushman continued his silent protest, still pondering why the BLUs would want him held hostage, anyway. He didn't question such things, though. Coffee cold and not a care in the world, he arose, saluted Engineer and shot out of the door.


End file.
